The sport of hill climbing is simple: Race a nitrous-fueled, titanium-paddled snow sled straight up a mountain--without maiming yourself or the fans.

On this chilly morning in late March there's something different in the Rocky Mountain air of Jackson, Wyo. It's the faint whiff of high-octane exhaust from dozens of revved-up four-stroke engines--rum-rum-rummmmm--and it's coming from the base of 7808-ft. Snow King ski mountain, a few blocks south of the town square. There, fans spread out on bleachers and camp chairs around a JumboTron watch Vincent Clark goose his 800cc Ski-Doo--rummmmm--as he glides to the starting line.

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Up ahead, beneath a chairlift, the 15-gate racecourse climbs 1571 vertical feet to the summit at a dizzying pitch. Clark and 250 other riders competing here at the annual World Championship Snowmobile Hill Climb are the best in the business--and only half of them make it to the top.

When Clark gets the go sign, he pins the throttle. A rooster tail of snow dust sprays the starter crew as the veteran racer from Valemount, British Columbia, roars off the line. In less than 20 seconds he buzz-saws through the first five gates on the relatively gentle lower reaches. A catwalk that leads to the steeper middle section--a skier's black diamond--has been deeply rutted by previous racers. "It's where they separate the amateurs from the pros," Snow King ski area manager Jim Sullivan tells one spectator. Clark shows his 10 years of race experience by riding the trenches like a highway, leaning left and right off his saddle, muscling his rig through the gates.

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The upper third of the run is a double-black-diamond slope striped by a cliff band called the Rock Garden--the crux of the race. Clark is carrying speed into this rutted obstacle course as he powers through gates 13 and 14, picking his line, trying to find snow for traction amid the ice, stumps and limestone blocks. Just when he's almost cleared the garden, he smacks a big bump that catapults him off his machine. Race over. Clark admits later, "I got through the tough part and I thought, 'I have this dialed.' Next thing I know, I'm lying on my side. But it was definitely cool for all the spectators."

Definitely: Down at the base, the JumboTron crowd whoops and hollers at Clark's misfortune. "That's all people want to see," one spectator says. "Wreckin'!"

Thirty years ago, a few members of Jackson Hole's Snowdevils snowmobile club were meeting at the Wort Hotel's Silver Dollar Bar. Maybe it was the beer kicking in, or maybe it was just the long, stir-crazy winter. For whatever reason, the group started engaging in some Western-style snowmo braggadocio. "You know how these things start," says Ted George, owner of a local auto repair shop and an attendee of the meeting. "Somebody said, 'I bet you can't do this,' and somebody else said, 'Oh, yeah? Well, I bet you can't do that,' and somebody else said, 'Oh, yeah?' And so on." The barroom bravado launched the world's first hill-climbing competition--and a new winter sport.

Hill climbing became so popular that it spawned its own league, the Rocky Mountain Snowmobile Hillclimb Association, which today sanctions nine races. That series has, in turn, inspired circuits in western Canada and Alaska, with about 1000 riders competing all winter for serious cash and sponsorship money. But the biggest and richest race remains the world championship in Jackson. By the end of the three-day pro competition, after many a hood-splintering crash and yard-sale wipeout, Kings of the Hill will be crowned in three classes--stock, improved and modified. (Each class is further divided by engine size.) Then the monarchs will battle it out in a sudden-death run up the mountain for the title King of the Kings.

Some 10,000 fans have come from all over the West to catch the action in Jackson. A massive convoy of pickups and covered trailers with team names stenciled on their sides is parked around town: F-Bomb Racing, Zbroz Racing, Piston Broke Racing (Our Drinking Team Has a Racing Problem). The snowmobile manufacturers are here, too, showing off their latest models. A bustling Budweiser beer tent is open for business. And, if you're feeling sparky, you can walk over to a hair salon where they'll pin on a $12 mullet and turn you into a "sledneck."

The first two days of competition are sunny and mild. But on the last day of racing it's snowing at the top of the mountain, and drizzling at the base. The sleds have carved down to dirt in some areas of the course. If nothing else, the chest-deep pipelines make for great wipeouts.

Kevin Zacher

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The volunteer Hill Helpers bail out a racer who has veered off course.

Kevin Zacher

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Cory Micku, from Buck Lake, Alberta, waits for his starting call in the Piston Broke Racing trailer. Micku is considered a strong contender. He finished second in last year's stock 800 class, and this year he qualified for the finals in three stock classes--800, 900 and 1000. Like a lot of riders, he's not too happy about the condition of the course. "It's horrible--the worst I've ever seen," he says. "The snow has been eaten away, and the troughs are deep."

Then there are the bumps. "If you hit a little bump one way, you fly off course and flip over," he says. "Hit it another way, and you get traction and finish. It's luck out there." Earlier today in the 800 stock finals, Micku hit one such bump near gate 11 and was launched off his sled.

When Micku's stock 900 heat comes up, he flies up the mountain at a good clip but gets tossed again at gate 11. The JumboTron crowd exhales a collective "Ohhh."

The stock 1000 heat offers a last chance to salvage some respect. Spraying gravelly snow, he screams up the mountain through gate 12. Looking good, Cory! But at gate 13 Micku seems to hit a land mine. He sails backward off the saddle; his machine executes a graceful double backflip. "I hit rocks and got thrown," he says later. "I was sliding down the ice, trying not to get punctured--and I could see that sled just endo-ing all the way down the hill."

Vincent Clark is one of the last racers in the modified finals, but he nails his run on the torn-up course and nabs the King of the Hill crown for his division. He returns to the base only to learn that he has to turn right around and make another run for the King of the Kings title. Micku cheers on his fellow Canadian, who's up against Todd Tupper of Fairfield, Idaho, in the improved class, and Chuck Hogan of Bozeman, Mont., in the stock.

The announcer adopts his special monster-truck-rally voice--"Sunday, Sunday, Sunday"--to call the final heat, and the rowdy crowd starts making bets. "I'm takin' Tupper," calls out one fan. "He rides an Arctic Cat!"

The announcer barks out a play-by-play. "Clark's running fast. He's through gate 13. He's got a good time going. Whoa! He beats the minute mark in 59.63!"

Tupper's fans look nervous. "C'mon, Todd, git 'er done!"

Tupper makes good time on the lower course but is vaulted off his sled at gate 14 in the Rock Garden. Hogan has a much more humbling fate: He gets stuck in a deep rut near the catwalk just below the Rock Garden.

"Vinnie Clark is the new King of the Kings!" bellows the announcer. The Canadians--there are hundreds of them--shoot their arms in the air and wait for Clark to ride back down the mountain and claim his prize money of $15,000.

Micku waxes philosophical. "For me, when you lose, then you lose a lot of money-gas, equipment, hotels. But if you win, you win big. Hey, last year I won $3000 American just for second place. On most courses, the fast guys always win. But here at Jackson, it's anything goes."